Is That You, Ruthie?

Ruby

List of illustrations

Map of dormitory and administrative area of Cherbourg Aboriginal Settlement in 1930s

Letter from Ruth to Superintendent of Cherbourg

Illustrations

Certificate of Exemption

Permit

Babies dormitory

Women and girls dormitory

AIM Church at Cherbourg, mid 1930s

Edna Walker and Doreen Barber, late 1930s

Philomene and Allan Gundy, late 1930s

Lois Davey and Myra Logan, late 1930s

Cherbourg AIM Sunday School group, c1940

Dormitory girls, c1940

Ruth and friends at AIM Sunday School picnic, c1941

Ruby Duncan, jillaroo, early to mid 1940s

Joe Hegarty at nineteen, 1949

Nell Cobbo’s wedding, 1951

Ruth and Joes wedding, 1951

Joe and Ruth, Townsville, 1979

Ruth and the dormitory, 1989

Acknowledgments

My thanks to Thorn Blake who encouraged me to complete this manuscript and submit it to the David Unaipon Award, and from whose unpublished thesis I have quoted; to my late husband Joe, who always encouraged my writing; and especially to the many members of my family—who when they read this book will learn more about where we come from, which will help them to understand who they are.

Map of Cherbourg Aboriginal Settlement showing the area around the dormitories and administrative buildings as it was in the 1930s. The camp area was much larger, and was south and west of the area shown above. The duck pond was near the creek to the east of the school. (Adapted from Thom Blake).

Introduction

I have always wanted to write a book about my own life. It’s something I thought about so many times over the years, but doubt would take over and I convinced myself I would do it later when the time was right. As I got older I thought more about it, and the more I thought about it the more urgent it became. I used such excuses as, I haven’t got the time, reminding myself of my limited education, and thinking I wouldn’t be able to put my thoughts down on paper. I later realised that I was limiting myself. To believe that I couldn’t do it was a mistake. Something within me had to trigger my creativity and it came by way of a phone call.

I had gone to bed a little earlier than usual and the silence of the night was broken by the ringing of the phone. Now, who on earth is ringing me this hour of the night? I thought as I reached for the phone. A call at that hour could only bring bad news. My family knows that unless it’s a matter of life and death, any phone call can wait for the morning. Timidly I answered, Hello?

Is that you, Ruthie?

I paused for a moment before answering. I smiled to myself. Here I am, sixty-six years of age and in an instant I’m back in my childhood, that voice and those very words, Is that you, Ruthie? took me back to the dormitory. I was tempted to stay there but I had to reply. Yes, it’s me.

Aunty Hazel here! I just wanted to let you know Dulcie died.

Oh dear! Just as I thought. Bad news.

Remember Dulcie? Dulcie Munro from the dormitory?

Of course, I said. Who could forget Dulcie? She was one of us, a dormitory girl. How could I ever forget one of the sisters? Dulcie was one of the real characters. She was paraplegic—I believe she was born that way. Like the rest of us, she spent her early years in the dormitory. She had a determination to be accepted and her independence was a thing to see. Her determination led her to create a style of walking that gave her some independence. The dormitory did not cater for the disabled. Because of this Dulcie taught herself to walk on all-fours. She raised herself off the ground with her arms stretched out behind her, and bent her knees to hold her bottom off the ground. Because she was forced to use her hands and feet in this way to support her weight, she had great corns on them. We all admired her, she went everywhere with us.

Each night she crawled up and down long flights of stairs to bed, a long and difficult climb on all-fours, as well as the long haul to the toilet block. Always unassisted. This earned Dulcie her own special place in our hearts.

How the memories came flooding back that night. Vivid memories of days gone by. I could almost hear the voices of all the children who shared the dormitory with me. What a long time ago that was. What stories I could write of our adventures, our lives. Sixty or so girls who grew up together in the dormitory, not knowing why we were there, never daring to question those who were responsible for our being interned at such a young age, institutionalised for reasons known only to the government. At that moment the book began to take shape.

I would tell my story and it would become theirs. The book would tell of the hurt and pain that we all suffered through being separated from our mothers and our families. I would write of the strict discipline and unfair treatment that was no substitute for the personal love and care of the families we had been deprived of. But I would also write of the games we played, the mischief we got into, the duck pond and oh, so many things. Yes, I would write a book and it would be dedicated to all of us. No one would be forgotten because my story is their story; whatever I write would reflect the experiences and feelings of all. Our lives were governed by the same policies and what happened to one, happened to all of us. No one was treated as special or given special privileges. We were treated identically, dressed identically, our hair cut identically. Our clothes and bald heads were a giveaway. We were dormitory girls.

1

Just a little while—the move to Barambah

My story really begins way back in 1930. That was the year my family moved to Barambah Aboriginal Settlement. I was just six months old at the time, a very fair-haired, fair-skinned child. Not even old enough to know what was happening. I left the west with my mother Ruby, her brothers and sisters, and her parents, George and Lizzie Duncan. My mother was the eldest of eight children. She was nineteen at the time and remembers quite vividly everything that led to her family’s decision to leave the west, a hard decision but a very necessary one for the immediate survival of the family. So the first part of this story is Ruby’s as well as mine.

My family came from the Mitchell district in south-west Queensland. My grandfather worked on properties in the western area and was not afraid of hard work. Whatever was needed to be done, he did it. He was a horse breaker, fencer, dogger and slaughterman. He was born at St George to a traditional Aboriginal mother and a Chinese father. He was a Bunberry man and his totem was the brown snake (munda). My grandmother was a proud Gunggari woman, whose totem was the possum. She spoke her Murri language. Her family was very traditional. I was the apple of my grandmother’s eye, she called me Munya (first grandchild). It was said that her brother Willie was a Guindian man, a clever man. I remember meeting him when I was about ten years old. Aboriginal people spoke of him with great respect. Many of the older people went to him for healing. They’d send him a piece of clothing to touch, it was believed that the piece of cloth would heal the owner when they got it back. He visited me at the dormitory one day when I was ten years old, and because of the terrifying stories I had heard of clever men I was glad he was my relation. In the dormitory we children told each other stories about clever men and bone pointing, and a strange potion called mussing that old men would use to try and catch us to be their wives. I was encouraged to call Willie grandfather because he was my grandmother’s brother. He looked so much like my grandmother, his skin was black and shiny. One of his legs was shorter than the other and he walked with a very pronounced limp that threw him from one side to the other. He used his hand pressed on the good leg to balance himself.

In my childish and inquisitive way I asked my Grandfather Willie if being a clever man wasn’t evil. He replied, What I do isn’t evil, all I do is heal people. I was very proud of him, he sounded like a real doctor. That was my first and last meeting with Grandfather Willie.

My mother and her brothers and sister were all bush-birthed children. Mum was born on the trail, George near the bridge over the Maranoa River at Mitchell. Eric, Douglas, Glen, Arthur, Jean, and Leslie were born at the yumba on Forest Vale Station. My Aunt Jean was one year older than me, and Uncle Leslie a year younger. I was born in a back room at Mitchell Base Hospital, the first Murri baby to be born in that hospital. Before 1929 it was not easy for Aboriginal women who were about to give birth to go to the local hospital, because of the unequal treatment they would receive there. So most of them gave birth at the yumba with the help of older women.

Forest Vale was a large cattle property owned by the Lutteridges and many Aboriginal people camped on the station in a section called the yumba. There was a strong bond between my mum and grandmother. The whole family lived a very traditional lifestyle and spoke only the Gunggari language in their camp.

In 1930 Australia was well into the Depression and station owners were cutting back on employment. Generally, Aboriginal people were the first to lose their jobs. They were hard times, and heartbreak could be seen everywhere. People, Aboriginal and white, were beginning to feel the depths of poverty caused by the Great Depression. Aboriginal families whose livelihood depended on work provided by sheep and cattle stations were now having to make hard decisions. Many moved to the outskirts of Mitchell or other towns and made their homes at the yumbas there. My grandfather was finding it difficult to support his family. His family was his life, and he felt it was up to him to decide what was best for them. The type of work he was used to was no longer available, and there was little work of any kind around at the time. So he decided to go to the local police sergeant (who was also the local Protector of Aboriginals) for advice, or to see if work was available in other areas. The family waited, hoping that Grandfather would come back with some encouraging news—news that would lift the cloud that cast a shadow of uncertainty over us.

The boys were a bit young to be overly concerned but Mum had some